


Imbalance

by gala_apples



Category: Bandom, Gym Class Heroes, Panic! at the Disco
Genre: Alternate Universe - Urban Fantasy, Elemental Magic, Illnesses, Knifeplay
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-17
Updated: 2013-01-17
Packaged: 2017-11-25 19:11:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,207
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/642091
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gala_apples/pseuds/gala_apples
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In a world where a person's elements need to be balanced, Brendon's missing metal. Luckily Travis has some.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Imbalance

“This is a metal House.”

“I know.” Brendon’s not stupid. It doesn’t take a genius to figure out where the five power Houses in New Geneva are. Hell, even if he hadn’t researched heavily, even if every step wasn’t drawing him closer to any metal leylines, the landscaping would make the metal House obvious. The fence is wrought iron, and the grass is yellowed and dead under the shadows of the numerous brass statues. Most people balance the influences in their homes and on their persons, out of necessity if not aesthetic. But of course metal Houses and the Workers inside them wouldn’t need to.

But he can’t say anyone alive would know what this house is. Not if he wants to get inside. There are reports everywhere online about House etiquette, and everyone says the same thing; your destiny is set in those first few seconds on the porch. Brendon’s not going to have his first, highly judged, impression be one of berating a metal Worker.

“So you do.”

Brendon opens his mouth to reply yes, then closes it. She catches the movement. She must have caught the movement, she’s staring directly at him.

Brendon’s trying to not stare back. He’s trying to pretend he’s not overwhelmed by his needs, their House, and the fact that apart from her neck chain she’s completely nude. She’s the first naked woman Brendon’s seen in real life, not online. 

She stares long enough that Brendon thinks she’ll never say no, just leave him standing there with his hands crammed in his pockets for eternity. It’s then that she steps to the side. She doesn’t tell him to come in, he makes the move himself, but she doesn’t punch him in the throat for it, and she looks perfectly capable of doing so if she thinks the event warrants it.

“Wander the House. Find a room that speaks to you. Someone will come in when you’re settled. If you’re not ready you should leave now.”

Brendon knows. It’s not like they lock you in the room. You’re free to leave at any time. The issue is as a ritual begins the metaphysical stakes get higher and higher until leaving is akin to signing your own toe tag. The very best case scenario that comes from leaving mid-ritual -or being forced to leave against your will- is insanity, complete with gibbering and drooling and throwing yourself against the wall nearest the leyline you need and can’t get to. In nearly all cases it’s death. 

But Brendon doesn’t care about the extreme risks. They’re only risks if you leave. He’s not going to back out. Each day the magnetism to metal objects and metal leylines gets stronger and stronger. He’s dangerously unbalanced. He can’t live like that anymore. However bizarre the solution he’s drawn to might be, he needs it.

The woman closes the door behind him once he’s fully in the foyer. She walks away, and she looks great doing so, but Brendon has no urge to follow her. No more than he has the urge to stand still where he is. Everything in the House reeks of metal influence, his body is humming with it. But when he finds the solution, it’ll sing. He’s sure of it. 

The metal House isn’t a house, particularly. Not one a normal family would live in. It’s more like a frat house, or a dormitory. No one that doesn’t live permanently in one of the Houses knows it’s exact composition, and they aren’t generally detail sharers, but the guess of the average outsider is that between ten and thirty workers live in each house. Most of the doors Brendon opens have beds, but none have people inside them. It’s impossible to say if they’re truly bedrooms or not. 

There are a small cluster of workers in the kitchen, the first he’s seen apart from the door opener with the red braids. Three of five are naked except for their chains. There’s another person off the street sitting on the knee of one of the workers. It’s not because he’s clothed that Brendon can tell. He can feel it. The Hispanic man is a dead spot, an uncomfortable pause in the humming of the room. 

One of them offers him tea. The tin kettle is still hissing, he could easily join them. Instead he shakes his head and keeps searching. Somewhere in the House is the reference point that will set him back on a normal, equalised path.

Brendon finds it in one of the bedrooms on the second floor. It doesn’t make visual sense, there’s nothing truly different about the room. The sheets on the bed are a different pattern, the shelving is full of books instead of knick knacks, but it’s basically the same room as any of the others he’s walked into. Except it’s not. He can feel that it’s not. And he was wrong. Nothing is singing. It’s all shouting, bellowing loud enough that he has to stagger to the bed and sit heavily on it. The mattress is old and soft, it buckles under his weight.

He doesn’t know how long he sits before someone comes in through the open door. He’s tall, with a pulled back afro haircut. “I’m Travie. Travis.”

“Brendon,” he replies faintly.

“Could you take off as much as you’re comfortable with taking off?”

It takes a minute for Brendon to stand up, inaudible sound pressing on him. When he’s on his feet, he strips off everything. He’s already fully committed, might as well look that way.

“Lay on your stomach?”

Brendon does.

“You can say stop whenev-”

“Yeah, I know. Do it.” Brendon’s not sure what he’s demanding, only knows that whatever happens in this room is what his metaphysical self needs.

Travis sits on the backs of his thighs. They’re skin to skin, and Brendon wonders for a moment if Travis is going to fuck him. Brendon wouldn’t say no, he likes both genders and Travis is good looking enough. He opens his mouth to ask and all that comes out is a groan. 

“You waited a while. I can tell.”

“Too long?” It would be easy to think so. So close, the metal running through Travis’ core is nearly overwhelming. Maybe he has already gone insane with metal-need.

“I’ve never not been able to pull someone back.”

There’s a light pressure on his shoulder blade. It swoops down, follows the line of his spine from a few inches to the left. Brendon knows better than to shudder. Instead he gasps against Travis’ pillow and curls his toes.

“Do you want to see it? Not everyone does. Some people are happier just sensing.”

Brendon cranes his neck as much as he can without jostling his shoulder. With the pillow against his face it’s harder than it sounds. Travis sees him trying and moves it closer to his line of vision.

The knife is about eight inches, the blade half of that. The handle is black, and shining, with a silver pommel on the end. The blade is good metalcraft, trailing point short and barely curved, spine long and strong. It’s beautiful. Brendon wants it all over him, for as long as Travis will allow.


End file.
